


I'll Take You Away

by louis_quatorze



Series: coalition government [2]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Politics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 17:09:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14573637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louis_quatorze/pseuds/louis_quatorze
Summary: The recently elected Chancellor of Germany needs a translator. Xabi Alonso is one of the best in the business.A study of a few important moments.





	I'll Take You Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ascience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/gifts).



> I'd say I only know what politicians did through television, except I don't even watch those. All knowledge therefore comes from handwaving and Wikipedia.
> 
> Title from "Papa was a Rodeo" by the Magnetic Fields.

The new translator looked like a GQ model, and silently, Philipp cursed Pep Guardiola.

His credentials, of course, were impeccable - experience with the English government at the highest level, time in Brussels, academic translation in Spain - and Thomas had said he’d been by far the most impressive candidate he’d talked to. Guardiola, for all his faults, knew talent when he saw it. While some might be upset that Philipp hadn’t gone through the normal diplomatic channels, he felt he needed the best. Right now, that seemed to be Xabier Alonso Olano.

He presented himself confidently, at least, introducing himself in relaxed German with just the hint of a Cologne accent, smiling just enough to be appropriate. He had a firm handshake and wore his grey suit well. His stubble was a dark red. It suited him, as he must have known. Really, it was ridiculous.

But Philipp was every inch the professional, and he shook Alonso’s hand with an appropriate smile of his own, then laid out the parameters of the first few months. Nothing too serious at first, officially getting to know Philipp’s manner of speaking, unofficially for Philipp to see if he would work. He knew he had a reputation for perfectionism, because he’d cultivated it carefully. Either Alonso would be what Pep had promised him to be, or Philipp would start over.

He hoped he wouldn’t have to, and not just because it would be such a hassle.

* * * *

Xabi Alonso had always been restless.

He grew up in what was widely regarded as one of the world’s most attractive cities, center of a unique culture, and the earliest desires he could recall were wanting out. Of knowing there was a world beyond San Sebastian, beyond the ocean even, and wanting to see it. Of, somehow, escaping history. 

His family were men of letters, but unlike his father, who’d moved his young family back to his roots as soon as he could, Xabi turned the family business outward. He focused on languages, finding enjoyment in the way they could be organized along certain lines, picked apart and reassembled, the way that they spoke about the cultures that used them. He liked the harsher lines of the Germanic languages the best, the way they locked into certain structures, and the puzzle of English. They were pleasant challenges. 

Languages responded to him in kind, which provided, as Xabi knew they would, the opportunities he wanted. He’d loved language, but he was fascinated by power, and there were options in the right circles for boys like him, men like him, able to take his skills and forge connections out of them. He could link passages together. That was what translation, diplomacy, was; the subtle tying of threads. He enjoyed the craft of it, and it gave him the escape he wanted. 

Degrees in three countries. Brussels. Strasbourg. London. The Gerrard administration might have been somewhat doomed from the start, but Xabi was young and proud and pleased to be working for a Prime Minister, to do what he felt he was meant to do. It was a rush, possibly too much, and he returned to Spain when it was all over, to the quieter world of academic translation. A different sort of challenge.

It was fine, for a while. But he was still restless. Academics only thought they mattered.

He didn’t know Pep Guardiola very well, but had translated some of his work, which seemed to be enough for the professor to get a sense of him (something that Xabi found immensely irritating). Something about that insight led him to offer to put Xabi into contact with the recently elected German chancellor. Xabi had been settled in Spain. He took the offer.

He’d been visiting friends towards the tail end of the last German election, and had been greatly impressed with it. Lahm presented himself as just different enough to be interesting – younger, queerer – while keeping to the same quiet centrism that the German public generally found comforting in a confusing world. He was dynamic but calm, with a smile and an air of competence. It might not have worked everywhere, but it worked in Germany, neutralizing what might have been a tense situation. He couldn’t say he wasn’t interested in learning more about the force behind that work of campaign art. So he went to Berlin.

The man himself was small and sharp-featured. He looked at Xabi with a shrewd, considering gaze, one subtly different from his television appearances, and spoke in a way that wasn’t an obvious test of Xabi’s abilities, but with a subtle challenge all the same. It was an intriguing way of making an introduction. 

This, Xabi felt, might be a bit fun.

* * * *

It was strange, having someone new around. Philipp had been Chancellor for less than a year, but he’d established his team well before that, parts of it even dating back to well before he was in charge of Economic Affairs. (That was Thomas Müller, gangly and sharp-toothed and even more clearly Bavarian than Philipp, who had noticed his perceptiveness as an intern that most just wished would stop talking for five minutes and kept him on ever since.) It was well-established by now, comfortable and well-oiled, and he had a sense of how they would act and react.

The core team met once a day at least, confirming strategy, checking on objectives, making sure things were still on track. The core team was three – Thomas, of course, but also Mesut Özil, a soft-spoken, brilliant strategist he’d prized from a Bundestag rival years ago, and Manuel Neuer, who was almost unprofessionally blunt in person but had a way with written communication that had made Philipp’s campaign what it was. All of an age to him, contributing to the narrative of his government being young and vibrant, a narrative he cultivated carefully. There were others, of course, but that was the heart of it, the ones that Philipp communicated with the most, that he spent the most time with. 

Alonso wasn’t part of the team, of course not, he wasn’t allowed in the meetings, but he was unfamiliar while still being in close contact with Philipp. It was a novelty. 

At first, as someone sticking close to his side, Philipp treated Alonso as something of a sounding board, someone to bounce his ideas off of, who would give him a reaction he wouldn’t expect. He knew how his team would respond, mostly, but Alonso had a slightly different perspective, having lived so many places. And while he didn’t say much, what he did say was insightful, enough for Philipp to sharpen his idea, at least. It was pleasant, to have such an advisor. 

The months of his probationary period passed too quickly, and Philipp knew he would miss it. He watched Alonso idly from the smoked glass of the conference room as he talked with Javi, one of their researchers, smiling as Alonso did that almost-laugh he did.

“He’s worked out well, huh?” Thomas said, perceptive as ever. “Thought you’d like him.”

Philipp made a noncommittal noise. “He’s good at it.”

“Mmm.” Philipp nodded. “He gave Manu corrections on his last speech. Surprised he didn’t get decked, but hey, I think it worked, you know?”

Philipp could imagine it. Manuel was touchy, but not unreasonable. (Otherwise, Philipp wouldn’t keep him.) And Alonso seemed like the kind of person to disregard the hierarchy ever so slightly. “Words are his job, Thomas.”

“He’s kind of a prick,” Thomas said, but he smiled, the sharp-tooth grin that made him look just slightly vicious. “Handsome, though.”

“Thomas.”

“Just saying.” 

Philipp knew exactly what he was saying. Thomas probably knew him best of anyone, these days. But there was no harm in talking to him, even looking at him. Philipp had so few distractions, and this was such a small one. Nothing would come of it.

* * * *

The first time Xabi felt the urge to kiss the Chancellor was after a diplomatic dinner in Strasbourg. It was the capstone of a tense but productive summit, the first official visit that Xabi had done at Philipp’s side. He’d seen Lahm in his office, at German events, but this was different. Here, he had to play complete attention to what Philipp was saying, and there was something about the way he navigated that pricked at Xabi’s brain. It was the subtle skill of Philipp Lahm when he wanted something, moving from person to person with a set path in mind, picking his words with distinct care. There was a clear aim to what he was doing, although it was only visible if you knew him, if you were paying attention. Xabi had to be at his best to keep up. 

It was a marked change from what he’d been used to with politicians. Stevie – Gerrard, Xabi needed to remember that, dispersonalize it – had the sort of manner that drew people to him, circling around his orbit as he did whatever it was he wanted to do anyway. The Spanish politicians he knew tended towards braggarts, the kind of men who laughed loudly while boasting about how important they were, all leers and puffed chests.

Philipp was neither. Philipp was almost unnoticeable when he wanted to be, a small, slender figure in a grey suit along the sidelines, which was honestly impressive for one of the world’s most powerful leaders. He smiled like an office manager. He made no boasts, only a few factual statements, carefully chosen for Xabi to relay. And yet, standing next to him, Xabi could sense his strength.

It was one thing in the office, to know Philipp mattered. It was another thing to see it here, in action. Xabi had always been impressed by power, and Philipp had such an easy command of his.

Philipp talked softly at him as they made their way back to their hotel, clearly in a reflective mood. He liked to think out loud sometimes, which Xabi appreciated. He liked to listen, to get a sense of where Philipp was intending to go next. It made his job easier, of course, but there was also an element of personal pleasure to it, the idea that he knew where the strings were. He’d missed it, since London, and Philipp was so much sharper, so much more dangerous. 

They reached their floor too quickly for Xabi’s liking. 

“So. Tomorrow, then?” Philipp said, as he opened his hotel door. He’d loosened but not removed his tie, pleased but tired in the soft lighting of the hotel hallway. 

“Of course,” Xabi replied, and he wanted to kiss him, but didn’t. The idea was too new. “Goodnight, Chancellor.” 

Philipp smirked as he went into his room.

* * * *

Philipp liked Xabi, he realized.

He’d stopped shadowing him, but he was still around, working with the research teams, preparing for trips and events. Xabi was meticulous as anyone on his staff, a necessity that Philipp appreciated, and was highly regarded by the research teams. Better translations, better information. 

He’d stopped shadowing him, but he’d still stop by Philipp’s office, bringing a report or a question or sometimes, just an idea he’d had. Philipp liked Xabi’s presence, liked being able to question him and hear him say something borderline-uncharitable about the host of the next summit, as deeply acidic as Philipp felt and rarely expressed. To be honest, Xabi was there nearly as often as the core team, and wandered in just as easily, comfortable in the well-appointed space. (He looked, Philipp noted in his idle hours, particularly poised on the office’s couch, well suited to its understated elegance.) 

The team had noticed, Philipp knew, but they seemed to like Xabi, or at least tolerate him well enough not to protest about how often Xabi seemed to find his way to Philipp’s company. Thomas, at least, seemed to genuinely like him, a mutual sense that made Philipp feel warm. Many people found Thomas irritating, one of the things that made him so effective, but Philipp had found that those who appreciated Thomas were smart enough to make good allies. Xabi was employed to be on Philipp’s side, of course, but he found himself wanting Xabi as an ally anyway, beyond the professional obligations. He never quite felt he could trust him beyond his professional obligations, his observations too sharp, his self-interest too clear, but he wanted Xabi on his side. 

It was a little dangerous, riskier than he should be playing, still so new in his position, but ultimately, he had little to fear. Philipp knew how this worked. Xabi would be entertaining for a while, a way to reset his brain so it could focus on the serious issues. He’d never do anything about it, and eventually, Xabi would be less interesting and it would stop. He had been there before. 

* * * *

“What’s the plan?” Xabi asked, surveying the dining room over Philipp’s shoulder.

“Macron first,” Philipp said, with a little expression of distaste. “He’ll like that. Flatter him. He’s not as strong on the banking issue as he projects, I think he’ll be easy enough to win over.”

Xabi nodded, filing the information away. It was nothing he wasn’t expecting, but he knew that Philipp liked to secure his plan before any event began, something that Xabi felt was eminently sensible. He also knew that Philipp didn’t care for many of his world leader peers, a fact that he’d teased out over the past several months but that Philipp made no apologies for despite his caution in disclosing. Steven had always prevaricated. “I think you’re right.”

“Make sure Rutte sees it, he’s been wavering. But we should avoid trying to talk to him until a bit later, make him wait.” Philipp snorted. Xabi remembered some particularly choice words for Rutte, although there was at least a grudging respect at his longevity and an accompanying wariness. “Rajoy?”

“Don’t worry.” Xabi shrugged, following Philipp’s gaze. “He wants to get on your good side. He knows you know Guardiola.” 

“Thinks we’ll go over to the Catalans?”

“You have a history.” 

Philipp flashed a grin at him, slightly teasing. “Useful, that Guardiola.”

“I suppose.” Xabi liked that grin, the one that was sharp and calculating, with a viciousness that he rarely left exposed. 

A sigh, and Philipp was back to business, smoothing his face back into its regular countenance. “Right. So Macron first, then let’s hit Plenković, Löfven…”

“Michel, I think.”

Philipp raised his eyebrows, then shrugged. “Michel. And then we’ll see from there. We need to get this Euro issue dealt with, so keep to that.” 

Xabi nodded, quietly pleased at his success, and squared his shoulders behind Philipp. It was time for them to work. The corridors of power awaited.

* * * *

Xabi kissed him in his office, in the early evening, leaning over reports on the upcoming Italian elections. Philipp wished he could say he wasn’t surprised, but he was. He knew where he stood, of course, but he supposed he never was fully competent at reading reciprocity. Despite the years and the changes in status, it was still a strange concept for him, that his interest would be returned without Philipp having to work for it. 

“Should I apologize?” Xabi asked, pulling back.

“I wouldn’t say that.” Philipp tilted back slightly himself, regarding Xabi with a gaze he hoped looked more wary than intrigued. 

“So I wasn’t wrong?” Xabi asked, and he sounded confident but didn’t quite look it.

Philipp relaxed slightly. “Not necessarily.” The air felt delicate around them, and Philipp was acutely aware of how airy and unromantic his office was. He had a feeling he was about to make an unwise decision. “I am your employer.” 

“Technically. But I’m sure I could find work again, if need be.” 

“I have no doubt about that.” There was a hurt in Xabi’s eyes that Philipp recognized despite his smirking confidence, a hurt that felt eminently relatable. There was a story that Philipp wanted to hear. This was a foolish risk. But perhaps, this time, the reward was worth it. At least he had to see this through. He was still intrigued. “Would you like to get dinner, Xabi?”

Xabi smiled.

They stood, and exited the office.

**Author's Note:**

> This didn't quite go in the direction I was hoping, but I hope you still enjoyed it!


End file.
